


Reasoning with hurricanes

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Exhaustion, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Louis ships it, M/M, Richelieu Lives AU, Spanish Prison AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt:"Armand is anxious about something political.  The king is showing indifference or exasperation,  or something isn't going on like he planned. He’s overthinking,  anxiety grows out of control,  he can’t sleep and is about to break down.  Treville has to find something,  anything to get him to relax and sleep. He has one night."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/gifts).



> I don't remember if Richelieu actually has a bedroom connected to his office in the show. Oh well, in this fic he does.

Work was a priority.

It always had been. Richelieu had not spent his whole life climbing up social ladder after social ladder, earning the red cloth that covered his body, only to squander it away.

It was so easy to let the pile of correspondence, maps and books to grow taller, like a magnificent tree. Not that he ever did, for long. Others might have, but Richelieu knew perfectly well that no one could do his job. He’d seen what happened when he was away.

And on nights like this, nights when his only company was his cats and sleeplessness, the very idea that he didn’t have time to read all that was odd to him. As taxing as not being able to sleep was, the first night always appeared to be a hidden blessing of sorts, as he usually managed to get a great deal of work done.

This was not the first night of insomnia. This was the third night.

He knew that his hands had shook throughout the day. When Richelieu looked at them, they were still shaking. They had started trembling on the second day he hadn’t been able to sleep, just a little bit. Then they had begun to shake so badly that he could not hold a quill.

Richelieu sat down at this desk and slit the nearest letter open in one smooth motion, pleased to be able to the most tedious letters over with as soon as possible. At least he could still read, even if he could not write.

He rubbed his bleary eyes, sighing.

Treville would not be happy to discover that he hadn’t slept. It was common enough for Richelieu to lose one night of sleep every now and then, which did not worry Treville. He understood the need to be alert through the night, being a solder down to the core.  And he’d told Richelieu stories about shepherds who’d later become Musketeers who had the ability to stay awake and alert through several nights when the wolves were closing in on the heard. Some of them slept with their eyes open too, Treville had said. And wasn’t France just a very large piece of land filled with people who didn’t realize how many wolves were in fact threatening their lives?

In many ways, both Richelieu and Treville were differently trained shepherds in France’s service. They had endured storms and the burning noon sun and endless freezing nights. And they were still here, after all this time.

It was when Richelieu lost more than two nights of sleep that Treville would begin to hover, sticking too close to him and staring at him all time like Richelieu was an unstable carriage wheel that could cause the entire carriage to wobble and eventually crash.

In the beginning of their relationship, things had been easier. Treville had been a distraction, most of the time. A shouting man who fought everyone like a livid alley cat, seemingly fueled by rage and a belief system that was based on honor above all. He’d burrowed himself into Richelieu’s life, like an old fox making himself a den, disturbing thousands of plans with his very presence and keen observation skills. He’d outright destroy the most delicate of Richelieu’s plans if he didn’t like them, barging into a room where Richelieu was speaking to diplomats about delicate matters. It had been like watching a bull walk wreck a china shop with outstanding success.

Sometimes he’d been a welcome distraction, when Richelieu’s blood boiled and he’d had craved a good old-fashioned fight, wanted to feel how hard Treville had resisted outright manhandling him and scolding him like a trainee Musketeer. Seeing him clenching his fingers and gritting his teeth had been a strange sort of pleasure. Their fights had been vicious, fast and deadly as Treville shouted and Richelieu lowered his voice and shot back cold insults. It had been thrilling, fighting with someone on what could only be called equal grounds, who was just as aware as Richelieu was, of what had to be done to make France even greater.

And then there had been the times when it had outright been a pleasurable distraction, when they’d worked together seamlessly to the betterment of France, nodding in unison and referring to each other’s arguments. During those times, Treville’s hand had brushed his as they walked and Richelieu had become familiar with the cool sensation of his hands on Treville’s breastplate as the carriage jolted through Paris.

Things were different now.

More complicated.

That Spanish Prison had stripped Richelieu free of so many lies he’d covered himself with like a blanket.

Richelieu knew that Treville was a vital ally, no matter how many times he’d find himself slipping into the same thought-patterns as before, like a ship that has gone a course so many times that the one at the steer will automatically turn a certain way. On nights like these, it would have been better to distance himself from Treville, at least in his mind. When it came to matters of state, Treville was in many ways just another citizen of France. Or so Richelieu told himself, trying to find some measure of comfort in how little courtiers and Parisians knew about Treville’s abilities and true worth.

It meant that he wasn’t as vulnerable, surely?

That they’d be safe for one more day?

It was easier to think of Treville only in terms of his rank and position at the king’s court, instead of as a living, breathing person who’d lifted him from the cell door and refused to let him die. Instead of all that he was, the good and bad parts and everything in-between.

Treville, who would sing bits of old nursery rhymes and soldier songs whenever Richelieu would lose himself in thoughts about the prison when they were walking beside each other and he’d smell flowers or see an unexpected ray of sunshine, things he’d never expected to experience again.

Treville, who still shouted at him and threatened courtiers and grinned at the king.

They had woven their lives together so tightly by now that it was difficult to imagine what life was like without Treville walking beside him at the same pace, his tone aggressive and respectful by turns with a hint of camaraderie these days. And then there was the king, watching them with an amused look in his eyes, as if he was watching an elaborate play with hidden clues and its own history. Wasn’t that the truth of it?

Of course it was.

Filtered through the sieve of time, their lives would one day become history.

He couldn’t afford to stop working, even if it was just for one night.

France was more valuable than his own peace of mind. And certainly, more valuable than sleep.

Treville would not be happy if heard that, or when he discovered that Richelieu hadn’t slept tonight. There would be concerned looks and perhaps even a heated argument if it had been a bad morning at the garrison. Treville had no time for subtleties or carefully concealed lies, even if they were all normal at court.

 What glimpses of real emotion there were, at court, were not to be discussed. Treville didn’t understand that, but then again, he never had. Richelieu had seen the way the king watched them both these days, as if he’d figured out some hidden puzzle and was enormously pleased with himself.

Richelieu rubbed his temples, aware of the sharp pangs of pain that were the predecessors of a truly awful migraine. After his time in the prison, his whole frame would tense up at the slightest unexpected sound if he was not on his guard, leaving him with tense muscles in his back and shoulders. Time had passed, and still he could not control the fact that his body had been trained to be afraid. The muscles had never fully relaxed, and nights spent reading and writing didn’t help matters. Nor did the current situation at court.

Louis simply wasn’t listening to him these days, loudly proclaiming that surely everything would work out now that Richelieu was back and that he had no need to worry. Then he’d ignored every argument Richelieu had made to dispute this.

Richelieu closed his eyes briefly, as if by doing that he could cheat sleep and open his eyes feeling just as refreshed. This did not happen.

He smoothed the letter on the desk and began reading.

Sleep was only a short version of oblivion, after all. He’d had enough of being locked away from his life. Losing five or three or even eight hours every day to what was a kind of death was foolish and irresponsible. He had work to do, and work could not wait.

There were no clerks. All the letters had to be read and decoded by him. He had to respond to them personally, every single one. It didn’t matter that the letters swam in front of his eyes if he kept them open too long without rubbing them.

Richelieu bowed his head. He could stand up and start the search for his night-clothes. But there were already just a few hours until sunrise. Sleeping would only disorientate his mind.

He knew how easy it was to miss the clues that an assassin was on the loose, how easily one could be poisoned, how fragile all positions at court where.

And then there were the endless threats to France itself. It was intolerable, but someone had to make sure that all was well. Someone had to do the work.

Richelieu breathed, feeling his own heart beating too fast in his chest.

No matter.

He picked up the next letter.

 

Outside, the stars shone.


	2. Chapter 2

“He’s doing it again, Sire,” Treville whispered, inclining his head towards Richelieu, who was seemingly restraining himself from arguing with a diplomat whose name Treville had not bothered to remember.

There was no point in not alerting the king to Richelieu’s fatigue. Treville had seen the worried look in the king’s eyes when Richelieu’s back was turned. And besides, Richelieu had been like this for days now, not just an evening. The king was used to the fact that Richelieu’s health wasn’t the best after he’d returned to court, but this was new. Richelieu had never looked this bad, at least not right in front of Louis.

The morning at the Louvre had passed in the sort of quiet haze of all fine summer mornings, even if it included far too many diplomats talking to the king. Most of them had left by now, only the most persistent ones remained. Treville had hoped to be able to leave for the garrison, but the king had asked him to stay until the diplomats were all gone. It was already evening, and still Richelieu had not been able to get rid of all the diplomats.

The king leaned closer to Treville, looking intrigued.

“Doing what?” Louis asked, appearing to pull himself out of a deep well of boredom. “Not sentencing that poor man to death?”

“Playing himself,” Treville said, narrowing his eyes when Richelieu made a face. His eyes were bloodshot and his face had turned an ashy grey with exhaustion. “Notice how he moves his hands.”

The king had his full attention now, and there was something in his expression that reminded Treville of the old days, when he would teach him how to spar in the gardens. This was just another kind of lesson. And the king liked to learn new things, or at least things that Treville found to be useful. His eyes were bright with curiosity as he watched Richelieu’s cloak sweep the floor as the man talked.

Treville sighed.

If Richelieu didn’t stop working so hard, his hair would fall out.

Most people in his position would have worked themselves to death by now. Not that Richelieu wasn’t going down that road himself. How in the world was he still conscious?

He’d have to corner the man and find a way to make him relax. He’d tried talking with him, even arguing with him, these past few days. He’d even flirted with him during their much-too-short carriage ride. All temporary fixes.

Well, fact was that he’d assumed that Richelieu would just be able to fall asleep on his own last night. Treville had stepped out of the carriage and gone back to the garrison, hopeful that things would be better the next day.

How wrong he’d been.

Alerting Louis would mean that if things got worse, the king would not be surprised if Treville would call the doctors and demand that they would order Richelieu to rest. Or at least give him something so that he would sleep.

“It’s like he’s in a play and he’s playing the lead role of Cardinal Richelieu,” Treville explained. “All movements are too amplified, too large to be real. He moves his hands all the time, either to make a point or touching the other fingers with his thumb because he’s either praying or counting.”

“Counting?” Louis asked, furrowing his brow. And yes, this was Louis, the man and not the king, who asked. The tone was different, even if it was subtly so. “Why would he do that? Praying is normal for a religious man, but…”

“Prisoners count, your majesty,” Treville said, his voice low. “Even if they don’t realize what they’re doing. It’s how they deal with the world.”

Louis nodded, looking pensive.

Richelieu’s fingers continued moving, but his eyes were cool and trained on the diplomat. And for a moment, the room did indeed look like a very grand stage.

“The performance of a lifetime,” the king said. “A starring role as Cardinal Richelieu, costume and all included with the show.”

The king watched as Richelieu walked over to the window, staring at the grounds below as if he’d never seen their splendor, much less bathed in the fading rays of the sun. As if he’d never expected to see the flight of birds outside the strip of sky he’d had from his seat in the cell.

“But he’s healed,” Louis argued, like all process was linear and simple. “And he’s back and no longer locked up in that ghastly place. Surely, he must know that he’s not in that cell anymore and that all this is real? Otherwise he wouldn’t have to play himself?”

“He knows, Sire,” Treville said. “But when he’s afraid or tired, I think he sometimes forgets that the life he has here isn’t a dream and he’ll wake up in the cell…”

“He told you that he feels as if this is a dream?” Louis asked.

Treville nodded.

“He’s so happy to have returned to Paris, Sire,” Treville said. “The prison was not a pleasant place.”

The diplomat was staring at Richelieu with the expression of someone that knows that he’s been defeated and that it is time for a tactical retreat. So he bowed, which the king acknowledged with a look, before leaving the room.

“Richelieu did spend an awfully long time over there,” Louis said. “And Paris is so wonderful that sometimes even I find that it resembles a dream. Make the Cardinal get some rest, Treville. I don’t care if you have to knock him out to do it.”

Treville nodded and bowed, catching Richelieu’s eye at the Cardinal himself bowed as the king nodded at them both before leaving the room to find his queen so they could spend some time together before the evening meal.

Treville fell into step with Richelieu as easily as water runs to the sea.

The Richelieu he’d brought back from the Spanish prison was still the same, in many ways. He spent far too much time behind a desk, staring at tiny handwriting and he was always covered in cat hair. But now he was prone to sudden stillness at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps and tended to stand just a fraction closer to Treville and the king than he used to. The rattle of keys made him twitch.

Well, working with Richelieu so that France could prosper had always been similar to running into your own house with water buckets alongside someone who lived there too and loved the house even more than you did. You knew running inside was life-threatening and terrifying, but you were doing it because you were in this together until the end anyway, no matter what the cost. Richelieu spent his life, just like Treville did, metaphorically looking at fires inside their home. Usually they just stomped on still-hot ashes or dumped a bucket of water on a little flame. Some days, like today, he’d find that Richelieu had spent entire days running back and forth from a well with a large bucket, without asking for help while believing that an entire room was currently on fire. That was just plain stupid. It was a good way to die.

Just as they were out of sight in the hallway, Richelieu’s entire body swayed to the right. He made no move to catch himself.

Treville grabbed him, holding onto his waist to steady him. If he hadn’t realized that the man had been tired Richelieu would have ended up on the floor in a heap of cloth. Treville doubled his grip when the Cardinal didn’t say anything right away, only stared at Treville.

“Where am I?” Richelieu asked, his eyes swimming. And then, more worryingly: “When am I?”

“What?” Treville asked, narrowing his eyes and ignoring the pang of fear in his chest. “Don’t you know?”

“Your hair is more silver than brown, so I must be out of that prison,” Richelieu said, as if the color of Treville’s hair was the most definite fact Richelieu needed to know about how much time had passed in their lives. As if Treville was the yardstick he used in calculating what was real and what was not. “And the floor is the same as the one at the Louvre…”

“When was the last time you slept?” Treville demanded, crushing the urge to poke at the bags beneath Richelieu’s eyes. He could hear traces of his own mother’s voice in his tone, even if she had died years ago. It was the tone that made grown Musketeers sit down in the mess hall and accept a plate of stew. The one that made them head to their cots instead of going out drinking.

“Only a few days,” Richelieu shot back. “You know just as well as I do what the state of France is like. There simply is no time for-“

“Shut up,” Treville said. “You are going to eat something, and then you are going to go to sleep.”

“Captain-“ Richelieu said, his tone dipping as it always did whenever he was on the verge of losing his temper. But when he tried to free himself from Treville’s grip, he stumbled.

“ _No,_ ” Treville growled. “I didn’t bring you back to Paris so you could die from exhaustion. I’m staying right here with you until you eat some proper food and lie down in a good bed.”

“And what if I don’t agree with this plan of yours?” Richelieu asked. His eyes were clearer now, but his hands were shaking so much that Treville doubted that he could even hold a cup steady. “I don’t like being ordered around. I’m not one of your men.”

His Musketeers would have obeyed him already. They’d be shoveling food into their mouths by now and gulping down cheap wine before heading to bed.

Richelieu wouldn’t be able to do any work tomorrow if things continued like this. There was no way that Treville could let anyone see Richelieu in this state. He’d have to fix this tonight.

“Then I’ll call the doctors and tell them that you’re still sick and have to spend at least a week or two in bed,” Treville said. “The king is already worried about you.”

Richelieu scowled as they began to walk again.  Treville hadn’t let go of him and could feel Richelieu’s entire frame trembling.

“I will find the nearest available doctor if you don’t come with me,” Treville threatened, aware that Richelieu was leaning against him.

For a split second, Treville considered the option of just carrying Richelieu to his office. The man was light enough, to be sure. He dismissed the thought as Richelieu glowered at him.

“Fine,” Richelieu said.

“Good,” Treville muttered. Then he dragged Richelieu to the office.

 

 

Treville had never thought of food as being a very specific kind of an enemy before. He watched as Richelieu scrutinized a bread bun as if it was a cunning assassin, having already pushed away two apples and two grapes. And he’d rejected the first two wine bottles, only opening the third one.

Not that Richelieu was likely to be able to taste any of the food that was in front of him, if he was as tired as Treville suspected.

“I know that I do not have your education, your Eminence,” Treville said, when Richelieu bit into the bread. “But there are many benefits to eating at least two meals a day. You can stand and walk around, for one thing.”

“Is that so?” Richelieu said, looking at his wine goblet as if he wanted to fling it against the wall.

“People need to eat so that they can live,” Treville said. “And sleep, too.”

“How enlightening,” Richelieu said. Now he was staring at cheese.

“If you want me to call someone from the kitchen to taste all this for poison, I can do that,” Treville said, sighing. “Or I can just take a bite of that apple over there.”

“And what will I do if you start convulsing because it’s been laced with something?” Richelieu asked, sipping his wine. “Hold you as you die in my arms? Shout for the guards?”

“Nice to hear that your first option is so romantic,” Treville said. “I’ve always thought that I’d die long before you did. And then you went and died on me.”

“It was not my intention,” Richelieu said, taking a delicate bite of bread. “And you brought me back.”

“When those assassins shot me and I thought I was dying in the mud I was looking forward to meeting you again so soon,” Treville said. “I had all the maps and plans ready in case you were in a Spanish prison. At the time, it felt like a fool’s errand, to hope that you were alive.”

Richelieu went very still.

It had felt fitting, feeling the blood seep out of him in Paris, the very heart of France. He hadn’t expected the men to find him. A cool breeze had caressed his cheek, as soft as Armand’s hand, and Treville felt that it was as close to last rites he was ever going to get. He’d caught a flash of red; a woman’s skirt or a cloak, and breathed out. Some part of him had felt that Richelieu had been kneeling beside him in the mud, cool hands cupping his face. It had been enough.

After all, the possibility of him dying of old age in his bed in Troisville had never been a part of any plan.

He’d known, and he still knew, that he was running out of time. He couldn’t stay a Musketeer forever. One day he would have to leave for good.

Treville looked at his hat, which was on the table. He took a sip of wine, not bothering to taste it. He was still Captain. He was still here.

“Whenever the men caught a glimpse of me studying the maps and reading all those coded letters, they thought that I was working on some secret mission for the king,” Treville muttered, shaking his head. “Then, later, when they realized that I was looking for you, they looked at me like I had found myself a good shovel and started digging up the graveyard.”

“And then you found me,” Richelieu said. It was a statement. It was as true as the presence of fruit in front of them, as beautiful as the raw joy in the king’s eyes when he saw that Richelieu was alive.

“You are going to live,” Treville said, and pushed cheese and butter in Richelieu’s direction. “I’m ordering you not to die. Not on my watch.”

Richelieu ate slowly, chewing his food until it must have been mush in his mouth. He allowed Treville to lead him to the bedroom and to take off his clothes. Layers slid off, one by one.

The bedsheets were cool and clean and soft. Treville ran his fingers over them several times before nodding and sitting down on a chair beside the bed.

It wasn’t as much that Richelieu fell asleep. It was more as if his body just went slack at the touch of comfort and his mind followed. His breathing was even and slow.

Treville rested, his own weary body glad of the quiet hum of the building. He leaned back in the chair, letting himself sink into the state of half-sleep perfected by soldiers, guards and shepherds. It took the very edge of exhaustion, but was light enough so that any disturbance would make him wake up.

However, the danger was that he’d fall asleep properly. The faint scent of perfume, ink and wildflowers felt as soothing as the coldest balm on burnt skin. And the sound of Richelieu’s calm breathing was such a beautiful sound…

It was so rare that he would get to sleep anywhere else than his own bed, lulled to sleep by the snores and laughter of his men in the garrison. It had been years since he’d had a whole hour of rest in relative silence…

When Treville woke up a half an hour later, Richelieu was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t hard to find Richelieu. He was in his office, trying to bury himself in work.

Treville doubted that he could even see the writing on the letters in front of him. He watched as Richelieu divided the letters into heaps, seemingly picking the thinnest ones to read.

There would be no use in screaming at him or arguing. It would only spiral out of control and leave them both trembling and out of sorts. Richelieu would dismiss him with a cold wave of the hand and cruel eyes, and Treville would be forced to return to the garrison. It had happened too many times for Treville to even contemplate shouting.

“Come back to bed, please,” Treville said, careful to keep his voice neutral. It wasn’t an order, or a demand. It wasn’t even a question.

Richelieu raised his eyes from the letter, as if he hadn’t counted on Treville’s mood to be calm. He’d probably expected a book to the face, or for Treville to storm out in a rage.

Treville waited.

He stood in the doorway, looking straight into Richelieu’s eyes. He didn’t look away, or move. The little blue flowers he’d given Richelieu yesterday were still on the desk, beginning to wilt but still fragant. Blue petals covered a page with a small ink drawing of one of Richelieu’s cats.

It was a mistake to think that soldiers only knew only two tactics: to attack or to defend. They spent most of their time waiting for the fight itself.

Saying something harsh to Richelieu right now would be about as sensible as throwing a beehive at the king’s face.

“What will get in return?” Richelieu asked. His tone was that of the First Minister, the person who would only have to smile in a certain way to make assassins who were eyeing the king reconsider their lives.

“I’ll join you,” Treville said. “I’ll stay the whole night.”

“Indeed?” Richelieu asked, blinking.

“The king has ordered me to make sure that you sleep, your Eminence,” Treville said. “You may be completely insufferable, but someone has to make sure that you live through the night. Right now, that person is me.”

Treville offered his hand, waiting. Richelieu leaned back in his chair before nodding, as if to himself before taking it.

“Come on, then,” Treville said, as if he was leading a horse to greener pastures. When he saw the look in Richelieu’s eyes, he shrugged. He was a country boy, and helping someone along would always have the connotation of holding a horse’s reins down a trodden path.

Richelieu wasn’t breathing properly. His breath was too short, his face too pale. He sat down on the bed as slowly as possible, as if afraid that it wasn’t truly there. After a few minutes, Richelieu seemed to get a hold of himself and he slid underneath the sheets with a murmur that might have been a prayer.

Treville undressed with the efficacy of a life-long soldier, unbuckling his breastplate and untying his blue cloak.

Richelieu made an appreciative noise and Treville tried his best to ignore the heat in his cheeks.

The boots came off too and soon he was naked underneath the sheets. Since he was here, there was no sense in sitting on the chair all night. His body sank into the soft mattress and Treville found himself smiling at the ceiling.

Richelieu’s hand found his, long finger gripping Treville’s rough ones with practiced ease. They’d been doing this for so long that Richelieu’s hand in his felt like an anchor, steadying him in their chaotic world.

“You should know,” Richelieu said, looking down at their hands. “I kept trying to draw you when I was in prison. Just my fingers in the sand that they didn’t bother to clean, so I could never get much of a likeness.”

“Hm,” Treville said, turning to look at Richelieu.

“The outline of you with your hat and in your uniform,” Richelieu said. “Or just your hands. I suspect it was to keep holding onto the hope that I’d be found one day.”

“So when we found you-“ Treville began.

“Only Musketeers would be so foolish to come looking for a dead man,” Richelieu said. “But they would also be the only ones insane enough to defy all the rules so they could bring me back.”

Treville said nothing. He’d seen a drawing of a tiny flower on the floor of the cell. And another one, of a feather. He’d barely glimpsed at them, focusing on Richelieu’s injuries and keeping him alive. But his hands had shaken and his chest had been constricted at the sight of those drawings.

 It was easy to move onto his side and slide an arm around Richelieu’s waist, fitting their bodies snugly together. Treville waited until Richelieu met his eyes and nodded, too aware of how fragile Richelieu’s body felt in his arms. Richelieu’s eyes were dark as he inclined his head, moving so that he was even closer to Treville.

 Treville cupped the back of Richelieu’s neck as Richelieu’s fingers brushed over scars, lingering on the gunshot wound that had almost killed him. He traced patterns on Treville’s skin, as if he was writing in a language of his own.  Treville dug his fingers into Richelieu’s hair, making circling motions on his scalp until Richelieu’s breathing evened out. If he was going to leave bruises, it was only right to try his best to rid Richelieu of other kinds of pain. Richelieu’s hands slid up Treville’s thighs, watching as Treville’s blush reached his chest with a smug look on his face.

Richelieu’s lips were soft and his hands cupped Treville’s jaw as they kissed, crushing their mouths together until they had to come up for air. Richelieu was already breathless, his skin slick with sweat and Treville gripped his hips as tightly as he dared. They moved together, breathing ragged and shuddering until they sank against the mattress, still interlocked.

Treville was the one who stood up and found a wet rag, which he used to clean them both up. Richelieu’s eyes followed his movements, but he made no move to leave the bed. However, it was only when Treville had sat back down on the bed that Richelieu closed his eyes.

Within five seconds, Richelieu was asleep. Treville adjusted the sheets and allowed himself to smile. He lay there for hours, watching as the sun rose and bathed the room in a golden glow. Then he stood up and dressed, the rough linen of his spare shirt scratching his skin after a night resting on the fine sheets of the Cardinal. He reached into his hat to pull out a single wildflower, a bit crushed, but it did the job. He put the flower on Richelieu’s desk and left as quietly as possible, breathing in as he headed for the garrison.


End file.
